Spinning

Chapter 33: sleep is for the weary

My body is so weird. I think I need to see a brain doctor. No, not because of my disgusting, obsessive need for male attention. And no, not for my desperate love of solitude. I need a doctor because I didn't sleep again last night, and the sleep deprivation feels like a heroin withdrawal – or, what I imagine a heroin withdrawal would feel like. My body aches; waves of nausea wash over me; my senses perceive more slowly; anxiety builds until I feel like I'm on the cusp of a breakdown.

I haven't left my bed yet. I'm willing myself to fall asleep. I light a soothing lavender candle – a survivor from my birthday décor – and turn on my white noise machine to drown out the street sounds. Nothing. My brain is churning. I try to focus my brain on not thinking at all for one minute. I can't. I physically can't. Thoughts sneak in through the cracks of my mental defense.

My phone buzzes from somewhere beside me. Goddamn it. I should've turned it off. It buzzes again, but I can't be bothered to move. It buzzes again. I wait and wait, and finally it grows silent. A few blissful moments of peace pass until—

"JORDAN." It's Matt's distinctive voice. "EDDIE'S HERE."

What. The. Fuck. Eddie is here again? Why? What possible reason could he have? Did he leave something here? Does he want to do chores again? I don't want to play therapist for Eddie's touring troubles. I roll out of bed – I literally roll – and can barely stand up straight. My head spins and my eyes water. I have some vague sense of worry that I'm in my pink and white polka dotted bathrobe and that my hair is a greasy mess and I haven't removed my makeup from last night, but all is overshadowed by the driving need to get back into bed.

I trudge down the stairs and open the front door of our building. I must really look bad because Eddie's bright, shining eyes cloud over the moment our eyes lock. If you can call it that – I don't even think my pupils can focus on anything.

"What do you want?" My voice is flat; I didn't mean to speak so abruptly, but I can't even manage a smile. Maybe I'm getting the flu.

"Jordan, are you okay? You look awful."

"I know. I'm tired." I can't form a witty response.

"Oh. Uh, okay. Well, I—I noticed yesterday, when I was cleaning the dishes, that your kitchen sink faucet is stuck. You know, it doesn't extend out like it should. So, uh, I figured I would come fix it. More house chores, you know." Eddie speaks with a worried tone, and I know why he's studying my face. I just turn around and lead him upstairs.

I'm leaning over him, watching as he unscrews the front base of my dishwasher, the apparent culprit for my stuck faucet hose, from the floor. He keeps struggling as he awkwardly works the screwdriver with his bandaged hand.

Gravity pulls at the skin right under my eyes. It's a miracle they're open at all.

"Jordan?"

I grunt in response. Eddie, still lying on the floor, props himself on his elbow and looks up at me.

"You're making me nervous. It's like you're going to collapse on me at any moment, and this Phillips head," he waves the screwdriver he's holding, "is going to pierce your skull and I'll never forgive myself for getting blood all over my favorite shirt." He's wearing his favorite Nirvana concert tee. I can't even manage a smile to reciprocate to Eddie. I just grunt again, and walk back to my bedroom, and actually collapse into my bed.

My bed is a soft haven of peace and weightlessness. It's cushioning power molds to every curve in my body. I'm gently floating on a warm summer breeze, shielded from the elements by my protective bed...

Except I'm not. Someone is playing with my hair... Wait, no, they are trying to strangle me! There is something around my neck... Fight them off Jordan. I don't know if I can move, but the feeling disappears...